


Checkmate

by MartyrJoan



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28232775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MartyrJoan/pseuds/MartyrJoan
Summary: After many months of vehement disagreement, Inquisitor Arravir Lavellan and Commander Cullen are beginning to tolerate each other.This is the story of them becoming friends and slowly falling in love over games of chess. The Commander thinks he is much better at hiding his intentions and feelings than he is.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	Checkmate

**Author's Note:**

> In the way of this year's DA4 day I just want to put a disclaimer before a fic featuring Cullen: I hate Greg Ellis, Cullen says trans rights, and in fact all the Rutherfords are queer. That man is not this character and if you defend him I don't want you reading this.
> 
> Thank you.
> 
> Onto happier notes:
> 
> This features my Inquisitor, Arravir Lavellan, who is a mage and I have a few different fics about as such. Her and Cullen did not get along for the beginning of their relationship, and this starts when they are just beginning to truly tolerate each other.

**Game Number 1**

“Inquisitor!” When Cullen notices her leaning against one of the grey stone columns in the center of the Skyhold gardens, observing them with that sharp gaze of hers, he feels like he could jump to attention. In fact, he nearly _does_ , wooden seat scraping against the stone beneath him while Dorian looks on with bemusement. Luckily, he maintains some dignity and doesn’t offer her the salute he has half a mind to give. He does not know how long she has been there, how long she has likely been waiting on him for some report he must have missed --

“Leaving, are you?” Dorian teases, not having moved in the slightest, leaning back like a satisfied cat that knows it has its prey cornered. “Does this mean I win?”

Cullen glances back down at the hexagonal chessboard between them, at how he is just a move or two away from victory, if Dorian hasn’t spotted it yet -- which he suspects he hasn’t. The Tevinter, while having been surprisingly good company this afternoon, is prone to gloating. The biggest mistake of any novice, Mia had always taught him, is undue bravado.

And Dorian’s is undue. So he sits down again, shooting a look at the other man, trying to anticipate what he’s planning -- or if he’s planning anything at all, as he has already tried both diversions and outright cheating. Then, Cullen looks to the Inquisitor apprehensively. Though short in stature, she is an imposing figure; something about her commanded attention even before she held her very new title. 

"Please, don't let me interrupt," Inquisitor Lavellan says finally, her voice guarded but calm. It’s a cold day in early winter, only partially cloudy, and somehow all the light seems to shine only on her, and the warm dark tones of her skin and hair. Taking a step forward, she eyes the board curiously. Fearing he has been looking at her too long, Cullen darts his eyes to the board as well, feeling a heat rise in his cheeks.

"Arravir, you're just in time to witness my victory!" Dorian teases, smiling fondly. To his great surprise, there is a ghost of a smile on her face as she raises an eyebrow at the Tevinter and crosses her arms. The two of them have become fast friends, the Inquisitor warming up to the other man faster than she has anyone else among their ranks -- even Solas, who she spends many hours with, though seemingly in a kind of academic relationship.

Not that he’s been paying that much attention, of course. He only notices because she is his colleague who he works closely with. And, of course, because she was so distant -- or outright hostile, in his case -- for so many months that he admits he is curious to see who among them will be her confidantes.

Does he want to be one? He isn’t sure. But he can’t deny, even when she could hardly speak to him in those early months, he found something about her very compelling. And, as he has watched her grow and fight beyond what any of them thought her or any person capable of, that feeling has only grown and expanded. 

“You’ll need to come to terms with my inevitable victory,” Dorian says smugly across from him, shocking him only slightly. Cullen is looking at the board, at Dorian’s most recent play, and he realizes: it truly is all bravado. His king is open to attack from Cullen's rook and he did not move to defend it, so he clearly did not see the threat to begin with. “It’ll help you feel better,” Dorian adds with an airy voice.

“Really? Because I just won.” Cullen doesn’t even look down when he pushes the piece forward and topples Dorian’s king, hearing it roll off the board as the Tevinter’s jaw drops ever so slightly. Cullen leans back in his chair, enjoying the victory perhaps a little _too_ much, imagining what Mia would say of the play, how _she_ would have gloated when they were children.

“It appears I am in time to witness _a_ victory, Dorian, though not _yours_ ,” the Inquisitor speaks up, some rare humor coloring her words. “How generous of you to allow the Commander to have it.”

“Of course. I am here to perform acts of charity to you Southerners after all,” Dorian turns in his seat to look up at her, folding his hands in front of him. “I may even have a chance at being named Black Divine after all my holy suffering here is done.”

As the Inquisitor rolls her eyes at the other man, Cullen rallies back. “Is that why you provided no defense when I had you in check three moves ago?”

Dorian purses his lips, expression souring. He shivers as if a gust of wind has rushed through on cue. Throwing his hands up in the air finally, he stands and, shaking his head, says, “Don’t get smug. _Both of you_. There will be no _living_ with you.”

“Where is that Andrastian patience now?” The Inquisitor asks lightly, looking up to him as he stands. The two of them are standing rather close, that sudden familiarity between them charging the air again. Cullen does not dare joke with them now; his relationship with the Inquisitor is still tenuous at best.

“Oh, I’ve decided on blaspheming again,” Dorian retorts. “Much more fun.” With a sigh, he pulls on his cloak that had been draped over his chair and adds, “I'll see you in the library later?”

“Of course.” 

With a set of nods, Dorian takes off into the gardens then, stomping on the infrequent patches of snow and dirtying them further.

There is a beat of awkward silence as Cullen looks from the messy board with the scattered pieces, to the gardens where most plants are bare and grim-looking, and back to the woman who he has only recently begun to find any sort of peace with. The woman who has made him uncomfortable for the things he has been confronting about himself and his beliefs.

But the Inquisitor is not looking at him. She is looking over the chessboard, eyeing the pieces curiously, her brow furrowing in confusion. Something in his gut leaps, and he realizes that the Dalish likely do not play the game, that they must have different ones, right? Maker, there was that clan outside Kirkwall all those years and he knows nothing of them.

“I should return to my duties as well,” he says finally, trying to crack open the silence that has fallen. Someone crosses the gardens behind her, feet scraping loudly on the wet earth, so he pauses in his tracks, not yet ready to stand and be confronted with someone else.

Feeling suddenly bold as he considers her curiosity, he takes a leap. “...Unless you would care for a game?” He gestures to the board, quickly pausing to pick up Dorian’s fallen king from where it has come to a stop near the edge of the table.

Her jaw seems to tighten, and he regrets it immediately. _Stupid,_ he thinks, _presumptuous, to think she would be okay with or want to_ \--

And then she nods, somewhat timidly, in a way that makes his breath stop. Taking a step closer to the table, she freezes and reaches out to one of the pieces. “You’ll have to show me how.”

She is determinedly not looking at him.

“Of course,” Cullen replies good naturedly. “I can explain the pieces as we set the board?”

“Please do, Commander,” she says, sitting down rather carefully, stiffly, in the seat Dorian had just vacated.

“Right.” He clears his throat, suddenly nervous. With a slight laugh, he points to Dorian’s -- no, her -- king. “That piece is called the ‘king’ and it is the most important piece in the game. I have one as well.” He lifts his own, carved of a redder wood than the paler off-white wood of her set. Each of our objectives are to protect our own king and to take the other’s. The other player's pieces are taken when you move one of your pieces --"

"Already this premise is very... _human_ ," the Inquisitor interrupts, her words good-natured despite the scrutiny. She has pulled her long braid over one shoulder and is absentmindedly undoing and redoing its twists. 

Cullen chuckles. "I suppose it is. My own father was born in a Ferelden still under Orlesian occupation, and I was not yet twenty when King Cailan fell at Ostagar. Warfare and capturing kings might be all we know." He shrugs. "These are simply generic titles, though, no political attachments to any one piece."

"Josephine could likely prove you wrong about that."

He looks up at her quickly, a hesitant smile on his face, still surprised by how much _humor_ she has shown today. She is still not looking at him, however, and the moment dies before he can respond. She resumes cordiality. "I'm sorry for the interruption. So, how are pieces taken?" 

Finding his stride, Cullen eases into an explanation of the pieces, pausing to make sure it’s not too much a deluge of new information and rules. Similar to how she is at briefings in the war room, she is largely quiet, listening intently. She touches each piece in front of her when he names them, and he is momentarily distracted by how nimble her hands are. He’s never noticed; she is so intimidating and forceful when she is fighting, that this small revelation of her gentleness strikes him like a blow to the back. 

He swallows. She looks up to him then, and he is further disarmed by the deep brown of her curious eyes. Her gaze, though piercing still, is softer. Their Inquisitor is a woman of such extremes.

Once he has finished explaining the rules, he looks to her. Already, this is the longest conversation they have had that doesn’t concern matters of the Inquisition or of mages and templars. He thinks of pointing it out, but decides not to. She is sitting stiffly still, but has leaned forward in the seat. The clouds above them have shifted out of the sun’s way, the light dappled across her face through the filter of the twisting branches of these barren trees. Though there are a few patches of green from those persistent plants that carry on through winter, there is something still very lonely about the scene. 

“Is anything unclear? Or would you like to start playing, Inquisitor?” he asks gently.

“Let’s begin, Commander,” she replies with ease. It almost makes him smile. 

“Excellent. You may have the first move.”

“Thank you.” And she pushes a pawn forward two spaces, fingers drumming on the table for a moment before she looks up to him eagerly. 

He nods affirmingly before pushing forward one of his own pawns. A few more turns pass by in silence, though, judging by her body language, it does not seem to be an _uncomfortable_ silence on her part. He allows her to take one of his pawns -- wanting to go easy on her since it is her first game -- before deciding he should try wading into the murky waters of _conversation._

“As a child, I played this with my sister.” She looks up at him quickly, folding her arms in front of herself on the table, giving him her full attention. “She would get this stuck-up grin whenever she won -- which was _all_ the time.” Cullen feels himself grinning, the memories of her gloating settling more fondly upon him than he would expect. He hardly lets himself think of Mia and the others; that eager-to-please boy he was is so different than who he feels he is now, sitting in his polished armor that hides a decade’s worth of scars. “My brother and I practiced for weeks. The look on her face when I finally won…” His smile is so large his cheeks hurt. There isn’t much purpose for smiling in these grim days. 

Part of him wonders if it is unprofessional or an unwanted anecdote, but when he looks to her, there is a small smile tugging at the Inquisitor’s mouth, too. He feels his chest tighten up suddenly, like his chestplate is for a man half his size. Taking a moment to find his words again, he leans back in his seat, the fluff of his pauldrons tickling his neck slightly. “Between serving the templars and the Inquisition, I haven’t seen them in years. I wonder if she still plays.”

He could ask Mia, he supposes. But that feels like the kind of casual question belonging to another man in another life, someone who would still be able to recognize the faces of their siblings in a crowd. His letters now are sparse because he does not know what to say or how to face them, even through writing.

“You have siblings?” The Inquisitor asks then, voice kind. It pulls him from his self-deprecating musing. Even with all this stiffness and tender cordiality between them after months of hostility, Cullen thinks that she is far kinder than he deserves.

“Two sisters and a brother,” he replies, wondering what else he should add. He pushes forward one of his pieces, knowing there is another move that would be more advantageous, but again, he does not want to be unfair to her while she is learning.

“Where are they now?” She asks as she evaluates the board.

Cullen wonders at that question if _Inquisitor Lavellan_ is _inquiring after their safety._ Josephine and Leliana have already asked similar questions, but from her it is...unexpected. He is grateful. “They moved to South Reach after the Blight.” He wants to add _I have never been there,_ but instead shapes his shame into the words “I do not write them as often as I should.”

The Inquisitor shivers in the cold and bites her bottom lip absentmindedly as she makes a play. It’s a good one, he thinks. She is catching on fast to how dynamic a field the board can be. Looking up to him, she says, “You don’t need me to tell you, Commander, but you should write to them soon.”

He nods half-heartedly, wanting to shrug it off as he often does the suggestions of his peers. But he lets them sink in as he makes his own move, and allows himself to wonder what Mia would think of the play. When the Inquisitor’s hand comes into focus before him, hovering for a moment before retracting, he looks up to her as she reconsiders her play.

His eyes trail the long braid of dark reddish-brown hair, and he remembers a month prior, when her legs gave out beneath her when they found her in the snow past the ruins of Haven. She had so stubbornly tried to walk to their haphazard mess of a camp, leaning on him and Cassandra but trudging on. They had politely refused to say anything at first when they began to be outright dragging her rather than supporting her. Even through his own layers of clothing and armor, he had been losing feeling in his fingers, so he could not imagine the way the cold had worked its way through the smaller woman’s bones. So he had, finally, delicately, cautiously, offered to carry her. And, after a drawn out pause, she had relented with an exhale that barely formed a “Yes.”

When she had been in his arms, then, her hair had brushed against his neck and face, so much thicker and softer than he had imagined. She had seemed so small, and yet he couldn’t comprehend that he was carrying the weight of her monumental bravery. She had choked out between her chapped and cracking lips, “Thank you, Cullen.”

It had been the first time she had called him by his first name. She has not again in the weeks since, and so he has not tried to call her by her first name, by Arravir. He had whispered it from his own dry throat back then in reply, but thinks now that she must have been unconscious and did not hear him. 

He does not want to cross any boundaries, so she is “Inquisitor” to him still, even as he tells her of his family over a simple game of chess. He realizes that in his arms or trudging through that snow all those weeks ago, she could have died, and he wouldn’t have known anything about her own family. He still knows nothing. 

He sucks in a breath just as she now definitively makes her play. “If you don’t mind me asking...do _you_ have any siblings?”

“No,” she replies immediately. Then, she fidgets in her chair, one hand forcefully gripping the arm rest as she adds, “My mother died when I was very young, and I have no older siblings.”

_Oh, Maker._ “I apologize, Inquisitor,” Cullen says very quickly. “I did not mean --”

“It’s alright, Commander.” She shakes her head, both hands returning to her lap. “You did not intend harm.”

He bows his head graciously and pauses to push forward one of his bishops forward four spaces, knocking out one of her rooks. He considers his next words carefully. “Before the Blight, my family lived in a small village called Honnleath. It’s --”

“Less than a day’s journey from here, isn’t it?” she cuts through. 

He widens his eyes in surprise. “I-- Yes, it is. I confess I’m surprised you knew that.”

She shifts in her seat again, her stare fixed downward, but not at the board. Seemingly not on anything at all. “There were...stories that the Hero of Ferelden walked through Honnleath and left with the town statue following behind her.”

Cullen laughs heartily at that. “I heard such tales as well! I assumed it was more of the annoying gossip that traveled through Kirkwall, but if you heard it in your clan as well, perhaps there is some truth to it.” He feels some tension leave his body now that the conversation is taking a lighter turn. “There was a strange statue in the town center, though I’ve no idea if it was a golem, as they say.”

Just then, he realizes his own error in underestimating her as she wipes out his bishop with her knight. Perhaps she had been counting on him capturing her rook as an easy play. “It’s unfortunate that Varric didn’t travel with the Hero of Ferelden. He would give quite an amusing account of the event.” She glances up to him, smirking with her small win.

“Amusing? Definitely. But true?” He shrugs with a degree of playfulness that makes him feel as if it is still Dorian sitting across from him. Or maybe he’s even _more_ relaxed than that. “Hard to say.”

The Inquisitor is turning one of his captured pieces over and over in her hand as she seems to be turning over an _idea_ in her mind as well. “You were stationed in the Ferelden Circle before Kirkwall, correct? Did you ever encounter the Hero of Ferelden when she recruited the mages?”

Just like that, all of his contentment vanishes. It is as if the sun has dipped beneath the mountains, or it is the first day of the lyrium withdrawals setting in again. There is a chill spreading out from his core, like his heart has started pumping ice. “No -- well, yes,” he says, words falling out so rapidly he can hardly control it. “I did see Warden Tabris. Though it was brief and a...difficult time. Would you allow me to request that I not speak of it?”

Her jaw seems to tighten as her eyes widen and she looks him over. There is something sad in her face as she appears to have to remind herself to speak. “Of course. It is _my_ turn to ask that _you_ forgive me for the intrusion.”

Cullen counts his breaths in and out, as he has so many times over the years until the darkness begins to ebb. He glances around the gardens, at the few people crossing between the statues and bushes, as though making sure no one saw that brief moment of weakness. No one but _her,_ anyway, which may make it worse. “There is nothing to forgive, Inquisitor. Curiosity about the Hero is hardly an offense.” He musters a smile at her encouragingly. She returns it, and it is so momentarily overwhelming that he searches for something else to say. “Though I didn't expect you to know so much about the Hero of Ferelden’s travels.”

"We Dalish may live in isolation, but we are part of the world, too, Commander,” she says, somewhat fiercely, exhaustion hidden behind the venom of her voice.“A Blight affects us. As does the Rift and Corypheus." 

She’s right, he knows, and feels that inking of shame deep inside him again. There is a degree of vanity in viewing the chaos of this past decade as human politics, isn’t there? “Of course,” he whispers, then repeats it, stronger. “Of course. Forgive me.”

"There is nothing to forgive, commander, other than my last play."

They each laugh softly and are playing again, their conversation coming and going as their concentration on the game itself shifts. It is new territory, this new fallen snow of becoming slow acquaintances. Of not know how deep or shallow any step might be and fretting each misstep while also being able to smile at the footsteps behind and say _I have been here._

Despite her demonstrated ability to catch on to the game quickly, he finds himself continuing to go easy on her, anticipating many of her moves but not always stepping up to prevent them. It is a close game, they both get each other in check at different points, but ultimately he sees her win coming, she announces it, and he doesn't prevent it. Instead, he moves his king out of the way of one of her few remaining pieces, but leaving it open to be struck by another of hers. It's a somewhat pathetic move on his part, so he only hopes that she doesn't believe him a poor military strategist after his "blunders."

"What do you say when you win?" She asks, gently tapping his king over. 

"You say 'checkmate.'"

"'Checkmate,'" she repeats, clearly amused at the word.

"And so the game is yours," he says graciously, collecting his pieces and lining them up once more. "Well played, Inquisitor."

She glances at him, seeming to scrutinize him. He returns the look, confused. As she arranges her pieces back into the starting positions, she suddenly says, "Would you like to play again next week?"

"I'd like that very much," he smiles fully again. 

Her own smile is something timid. "You should write to your siblings in the meantime." 

"I'll consider it," he nods. 

She stands and throws her hair over her shoulder. As she takes a step into the slush of snow, she pauses and turns around.

"And, Commander?"

"Yes, Inquisitor?" He freezes, caught in anticipation.

"Next time...don't let me win."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This will be multiple chapters but I'm unsure how many at the moment.


End file.
